This past week my to-do list involved calling or going to see a doctor, lawyer, hotel chef, insurance agent, electrician, department store, and as many as 4 banks. I also had to squeeze in the usual laundry, food shopping, and vegetable garden tending, exercising, part time work and sleeping.
I heard a writer say once that the only reason he could imagine for not writing is death. All I can think is that he must work in a divine vacuum--no family, no friends, and none of the physical demands of a normal human body for food, rest and the occasional obligatory primal scream.
Life doesn't always let me write. Sometimes it doesn't even let me think about writing. And if I can't write, I become antsy or, put mildly, psycho.
My name's Elena and I'm an addict.
What we writers need is for some of you dedicated fans to pitch in and, say, drive our kids to piano lessons, or do our taxes, or go argue with the mechanic about that oil leak in the car that didn't materialize until after he last worked on it. Do that for us and maybe we can all write in blissful peace and keep churning out those books you love so much.
Think about it, will ya? I'm getting the shakes.
Next week I'll be traveling to the Windy City (only way I could think to accidently lose my Yankees cap without offending the person who gave it to me), so I won't be posting a formal blog (then again, this one isn't exactly white tie and tails).